


One-track mind (we got a skin-on-skin thing, baby)

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur decides he needs to teach Eames the point of sticking to the plan. With the flat of his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-track mind (we got a skin-on-skin thing, baby)

**Author's Note:**

> Another bit of commentporn originally written on Cherrybina's LJ. This exists mostly due to the amazing cheerleading abilities of Photoclerk, who egged me on, held my hand and eventually _dragged_ me through it despite all my needy whining.  
>  Also enormous thanks to Ineptshieldmaid who knows I need the stick as well as the carrot and beta-read the hell out of it for me. Thank you, darlings.  
> Title from Queens of the Stone Age's [Skin on Skin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0gV6Du3iRs)

'You don't just change forgery halfway through a job, Eames,' Arthur says. He's on edge, adjusting his cufflinks as they take the lift up to the top floor of the hotel, chasing the mark.

'We were losing him, I had to bring in the mistress. I wasn't in his sightlines-'

'You make the projections suspicious with every change, asshole. If you had doubts we should have talked this out topside.'

'I was _improvising_ , Arthur,' the forger says. He's wearing his own body right now, but ready to change as soon as they step out of the metal-and-mirror box they're in.

'Improvise on your own time,' Arthur growls. 'On my jobs, you stick to my plan.'

'Even when your plan is getting us nowhere?' Eames demands, feeling stung. 'Just trust me, for once.'

Apparently that's one step too far. Arthur slams him up against the wall, the extra inch of his height and the element of surprise beating out Eames's extra breadth and weight.

'Just do as you're _fucking_ told, Eames,' Arthur snarls, his breath hot against Eames's mouth and his cock hard in his impeccable trousers as the jolt of the lift reaching their floor jerks them together.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you,' Eames says, and he'd have to be a better forger than he is, a better forger than exists in all the world, to hide the fact that he'd like it too - Arthur giving him instructions and him only fighting it for the look of the thing, for the way Arthur would smack him, or pinch him, or just look at him with that face all made of straight, flat, disappointed lines that would galvanise him into obedience.

'Fuck, Eames -' Arthur says low in his throat, but right then, the lift doors open, and the mark is nearly at his room door.

'You can tell me all about it back up top,' Eames forces himself to say as he forces himself into the mistress's body. 'All the rules you think I should be following.' He steps back and adjusts the neckline of his cocktail dress, leaving Arthur in the lift, where he's going to go up another floor and break into the safe in there while Eames is being ... distracting ... in the way only he knows how.

Arthur peers out of the lift, down the corridor to the mark's rooms. 'You'll call me when you get the combination?'

'Or Morse code on the headboard with one of my stilettos,' Eames replies offhandedly. Ignoring Arthur's glare, he adds, 'Improvisation, remember? And who knows what that straight-laced businessman and his mistress usually get up to in hotel rooms. You'll have to take what you can get, I'm afraid.'

'You have to watch out for the straight-laced ones,' Arthur agrees grimly. 'You've got half an hour. I'll see you on the surface.'

Eames comes to topside with the taste-memory of the mistress's scent in the back of his throat and a nebulous burn of arousal thrumming low in his gut. Arthur has already sedated the mark and packed up the PASIV, and with a bag over each shoulder and a long, elegant trench coat on, he looks like he's about to leave already.

'If I tell you to be at my hotel room in fifteen minutes, what will you do?' Arthur asks conversationally.

Eames leaves his answer a second, stretching his arms above his head to work the kinks out, and then says, 'Be there in twenty minutes.'

'I thought so,' Arthur says, and it's hard to tell if he's smiling or not as he turns on his heel and walks out.

Eames is at Arthur's hotel room in twenty-three minutes time. The extra three minutes is the time he took to wheedle a cardkey out of the concierge. This makes him eight minutes late. Arthur's expression when Eames walks into his room is _glorious_ , all open and calm and even slightly amused, pleased. Pleased that Eames didn't do what he was told, that he didn't even manage to be disobedient the exact way he said he would.

'Do you have a problem with authority, Mister Eames?' Arthur asks equably. He's barefoot in his beautiful wheat-coloured trousers, and he's lost his coat, his jacket and his tie, his shirt three-buttons-undone under the unbuttoned waistcoat, and his sleeves are rolled up. He looks ... business-like.

Arthur always looks business-like, no matter what he's wearing.

'No,' Eames says. 'I have a problem with being told what to do. Authority is fine provided it leaves me alone.'

'The door is behind you,' Arthur points out.

Neither of them move for a long, long moment.

'That would be running away,' Eames eventually says. He doesn't move, because that would be taking matters into his own hands. Arthur wants him to do as he's told? Then Arthur's going to have to tell him what to do, and take the chance that he'll disobey.

'And you don't like running away.'

'Old habits die hard.'

'Come over here, then,' Arthur says. His voice is even, and he still has that not-quite-a-smile on his face, like he's enjoying himself just being calm because he knows it's making Eames's blood-pressure skyrocket.

Eames goes over there. It's hard to disobey people telling you what you want to hear.

'I'd ask you what you want, but that's not the point, is it?' Arthur asks, fingering one of Eames's lapels. 'The question is, what do you deserve, after deliberately trying my patience like that?'

'You're in charge,' Eames says, resolutely not moving. He can stay still. He spent months early-on in the military learning not to move, no matter who was shouting at him or what they were saying or any of the rest of it. Arthur's hand smoothing along the line where his shirt collar meets his skin should be nothing on that.

'I know I am,' Arthur replies. 'And I asked you a question.'

'I suppose I deserve to be punished,' Eames says. Half of him wants to laugh, and add some joke about how he writes cheap erotica in his spare time, but the other half shivers tight and cold-hot at his own words.

'Very perceptive, Mister Eames,' Arthur says, just as his other hand, the hand Eames had pretty much forgotten about, smacks hard on Eames's arse.

Standing upright, it doesn't hurt as much as it might. Eames doesn't move, but his next intake of breath is twice as deep and ragged as the previous one. Arthur's faint little smile deepens. Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the little minx. Eames has been smacked with the flat of the hand for bad behaviour as a child, was caned for more serious misdemeanours at school, and he knows what makes it bearable, what makes it worse, and standing up it's never as bad. That he knows. And the way Arthur's looking at him, assessing his reaction, he knows that too. He just wants to gauge how far he can take this, in fact, and all with that smile on his face.

He has dimples.

The next smack is harder, the one after that harder still, fuzzing hot through Eames's trousers, and it makes him make a noise, just a little unwillingly-let-out one. Arthur stays with that level of force, five more smacks until Eames's arse is hot with it and his trousers are chafing. Eames stays standing ramrod-straight.

'Tardiness costs lives, Mister Eames,' Arthur reminds him gently, like the sadistic flight-sergeant from every recruit's nightmares. 'Please, don't be late.'

'But you like it so much when I am,' Eames says, trying to ignore the way the soreness of it makes him harder. He thinks maybe he wants Arthur to pull his hair, but not deliberately - he wants Arthur to pull his hair because Arthur's starting to lose control.

Oh yes, Eames wants to see _that._

'I like it better when you _do as you're told.'_

'You don't give me many opportunities to do that, though,' Eames says. 'Your expectations are fairly high, I feel I should point out. Not all of us were born perfect.'

Arthur's eyes narrow, but crinkle at the corners, like there's a joke there somewhere. 'Get on your knees for me, then, Eames. That should be easy.' He doesn't even finish the sentence before Eames is kneeling in front of him, eye-level with the gorgeous pale cloth of his trousers, decadently soft and thick and so very, very tempting. 'Good,' Arthur murmurs. 'That's good.'

Eames flicks his hands behind his back in a professorial pose, like he's about to pontificate about post-war poets, or something equally pedantic (and he can feel the wrath of his secondary-school English teacher speeding from beyond the grave and across the miles to burn him for all that alliteration), and waits. Because he would _like_ to mouth and mumble at Arthur through his expensive clothes; he would like to be the cause of a ruinous dry-cleaning bill; he would like Arthur to have to specially ask his dry-cleaner to be _discreet_ ; but if he doesn't wait, he suspects that this evening will involve an awful lot more of the flat of Arthur's hand and an awful lot less of the taste of his skin than Eames would ideally like.

So he waits.

'You're being patient,' Arthur says, looking down at him.

'You're being suspicious.'

'Do you blame me?'

Eames grins. 'Not entirely.'

Arthur considers him for a long moment, and then his hands go to his fly. 'I think I'll give you the benefit of the doubt,' he says, 'and let you have this for a while.' And with that he drops his trousers.

He isn't wearing any underwear.

Eames's mouth _waters_. It's not that he particularly likes sucking cock over any other activity he could be participating in, it's that Arthur says he'll _let_ Eames do it. Like he's making a concession, and a concession is him giving in, just a little bit, and that gives Eames _leverage_.

Arthur's in control, oh yes, but he's only in control of what Eames gives him to control. Eames could walk out of this if he wanted to. It just so happens that he doesn't want to.

Eames has a feeling that Arthur likes it like this. If Eames was actually vulnerable, if he actually felt like he couldn't walk out of this, Arthur wouldn't be interested. As it stands, Arthur is threading his hands very carefully and deliberately and firmly through Eames's hair, and bringing Eames's mouth closer and closer until Eames's nose bumps just above the junction of Arthur's hip and thigh, and his mouth gently touches Arthur's cock. Eames lets his eyes slip shut, because he knows how that looks from Arthur's perspective, and opens his mouth.

Here's the thing Eames thinks about sucking cock - it's only actually any fun in your mind. But let's face it - pretty much everything Eames spends his day-to-day life doing is only fun in his mind.

So Eames takes Arthur in and feels the power in what he's doing at the same time he feels Arthur's hands clench and Arthur's pulse over his tongue, steady but a bit fast for someone supposedly in complete control of all his faculties. It's hard to grin when someone's got their cock stuffed in your mouth, but Eames tries anyway. And just when he thinks he's getting the better of Arthur, Arthur shows him he's not the only person who can people-watch while fucking.

His hands shift minutely on Eames's scalp, and he says, mildly, 'Don't think I don't know what you were doing with the mark, in that dream.'

Eames attempts to convey, without the use of his glib tongue, which is otherwise occupied at the moment, that he was just doing his job. Arthur's fingers tighten in Eames's hair.

'I know you were doing what you were supposed to be doing, and I know we finished the job just fine, but _you_ should know something,' Arthur continues. And without warning, he yanks Eames close, as far into the cradle of his hips as he can, so that Eames is forced to take him all, every inch, down his throat. 'I don't like to share,' Arthur says, and fuck, if Eames's already tight trousers don't become almost unbearable at that, a flat and impersonal fabric cruelty, holding him in confines too strict to get even a smidge of relief, particularly with his hands behind his back as they are. And he won't admit Arthur's getting to him by trying to get his balance back with the use of his arms, so now he's being held up by Arthur's fingers in his hair, Arthur pulling his hair, and it's as erotic as Eames thought it would be, except that it's not Arthur _losing_ control that makes him yank on Eames's scalp - it' s him taking it.

Arthur drives Eames's movements now, still talking. 'I like partnerships,' Arthur says. 'I like things to be solid, and I like people to know where they stand. Or kneel, as the case may be,' and at that Eames opens his eyes and looks awkwardly up at where Arthur is smiling at him, wicked dimples on display. 'And as far as I'm concerned, this little situation we have is perfectly workable.'

Eames suddenly finds himself pulled all the way off, and then Arthur lets go entirely, which pushes Eames off-balance enough to send him lurching back on his heels, looking up at Arthur standing there with his wet, dripping cock hanging out of his somehow still-pristine trousers. 'You're mine,' Arthur says, as if Eames hasn't got the point yet. 'And you do as you're told. Are we clear?'

'Oh, very clear,' Eames says, wriggling until he's not crushing the blood out of his own legs, and appreciating the view while he has it, which he doesn't for long. Arthur offers him a hand, and he takes it. Eames gets hauled back to his feet, and Arthur keeps hold of him, tangling their fingers.

'C'mere,' Arthur says quietly, and pulls Eames in for a kiss. Eames's lips are swollen, feeling tender at the corners of his mouth where they've been stretched around Arthur, and he must know it, because he's careful and gentle, licking, almost nuzzling, until Eames starts to drift off into a feeling of security.

Of course, that's when he snaps back to wariness, because this is Arthur he's snogging here. And Arthur notices that, too, because he grins under Eames's mouth and licks turn to nips turn to bites, still gentle, but decisive and deliberate, and he starts pushing, making Eames walk backwards.

The thump of the bed at Eames's knees is entirely expected, but with Arthur propelling him he's too off-balance to prevent himself falling onto the mattress. Arthur, of course, lets go in time to save himself the same fate, and so he stands in the V of Eames's legs where they're sprawled, dangling over the edge of the mattress, and looking down contemplatively.

Eames hauls himself onto the bed properly, leaning up on his forearms and taking in the view of Arthur as surely as Arthur is taking in his view of Eames.

'Did you have a plan past this point, or were you going to improvise?' Eames asks.

Arthur smirks. 'I always have a plan, Mister Eames.' He gets on the bed then, straddling the sprawl of Eames's thighs and placing one hand over Eames's sternum. He pushes, and Eames gives in and goes flat. 'The question is, are you going to stick to it?'

'If it looks like it's going to work, then of course,' Eames counters.

'Hmmm.' Arthur sits back up, the weight of his body centred over Eames's pelvis enough to be firm and controlling, but not painful, and apparently contemplates his next move. 'I don't think I will tell you the plan,' he says. 'You'll only sabotage it.'

'I like surprises,' says Eames off-handedly, waiting to see what Arthur's going to do.

'Do you,' Arthur murmurs, and shrugs his waistcoat off. Then he unbuttons the rest of his shirt, sliding that off as well, and then tugging his undershirt off.

People think Arthur's obsessive about his clothing. Not the truth. Arthur's obsessive about getting things right. Sometimes, getting things right is wearing Dunhill with panache, admittedly. But sometimes, getting things right is throwing Dunhill haphazardly at the wall and then biting Eames's earlobe, which is what Arthur proceeds to do. Eames moans, half from the warmth and wet and sharpness of Arthur's mouth on his ear, and half from the knowledge that Arthur is prepared to mistreat his clothes for the sake of being in bed with Eames.

That shouldn't be as sexy as it is.

And then Arthur's hands find Eames's buttons. And that shouldn't be as sexy as it is either, Arthur's elegant fingers sliding each little circle out of its tiny embroidered eyelet, but it is, oh it is, as each tiny brush of skin on skin seems to be magnified by just how tiny they are.

Arthur pushes the shirt off Eames's shoulders and lets it frame his body. He's not wearing an undershirt, so this gives Arthur a full view of everything from waistband up, and Eames desperately tries not to squirm under Arthur as the point-man eyes him up and down.

'You're in shape for a man who spends all day sleeping,' Arthur says, tracing one of those fingers down Eames's sternum to his navel.

'I could say the same for you,' Eames points out. 'Very ... limber,' he adds, as Arthur shuffles a little way down and starts to work on Eames's fly. Through all of this, of course, Arthur's cock is still on display past the opening in his own trousers, and it is a tribute to some extremely fine tailoring that those trousers haven't fallen down yet. They must fit like an arse-glove.

... That is a horrible phrase and Eames is never using it again. He makes a mental note. And then his brain stops making sensible observations like that, because Arthur has his hand around Eames's cock outside his briefs, and is sliding it slowly up and down with a calculating look on his face.

'Yes?' Eames manages in a creditably even tone of voice.

'I was just considering all my options,' Arthur says, slowing his hand even more.

'I thought you had a plan,' Eames points out.

'I do. The plan is to make decisions at the opportune moment,' Arthur replies, and quirks an eyebrow. 'Now ssh, and let me think.'

Eames decides to go with it, and relaxes back into the mattress. His shirt is actually quite soft, and the duvet underneath him is thick and plush, because Arthur only stays in cheap hotels when he's undercover, and so all in all it's quite nice to wriggle back and sink in a little, except that that movement reminds him of his urgent hard-on and the fact that Arthur is _stroking it_. He reaches mindlessly for Arthur, and then remembers he's not supposed to be doing any of the grabbing in this scenario, because Arthur moves back out of reach again.

'Uh-uh,' he says. 'You're learning to obey instructions, remember? No taking things into your own hands, that defeats the purpose.'

'Sorry,' Eames mutters, and then growls at himself, because 'sorry' makes it sound like he's regretting, makes it sound like he's playing along with Arthur's little game, and he's not. He's using this to get Arthur good and wild for him, right? Be all submissive until Arthur's burning for it, and then turn the tables. Remember, Eames?

'Good,' murmurs Arthur, and he leans down again and strokes a hand through Eames's hair. 'Now, c'mon, lift up a bit,' he says, and shifts to take his weight on his knees, so that he can drag Eames's trousers and briefs off. He gets off the bed entirely to free them from Eames's ankles, and then drops his own trousers matter-of-factly, and stands naked in front of Eames for a second, scratching the back of his head idly like he's deciding what to do next.

'Alright, turn over,' he says eventually. He's so deliberate. He might as well have been telling Eames to make coffee or clean his pistol, two things he is _always_ telling Eames to do and then deliberately not criticising his efforts at, which Eames finds particularly insulting, because actually he makes a fine cup of coffee and his M9 is always impeccably well-maintained, and Arthur doesn't even say anything, he just ...

It is a tribute to Eames's irritation with Arthur's apparent disappointment with the way he cleans his weaponry that he's _only just realised_ that that could be a euphemism this second.

Eames realises he hasn't obeyed Arthur's instruction yet. He quirks an eyebrow at Arthur, like this was deliberate, and grins, and _then_ he rolls over, taking his unbuttoned shirt with him, because it's still hooked over his elbows.

The smack to his arse is entirely expected. It thrums through him, though, and his shirt-tails flutter over the spot Arthur just hit, and that feels _amazing_. Eames, though, has to school himself to stay still. Arthur cannot be allowed to think Eames is getting into this.

'You're fighting so hard,' Arthur whispers in Eames's ear, covering Eames's body with his own. It's _hot_ , hot in the temperature sense - Eames is burning from the slap and the warmth of Arthur's skin. Arthur's cock is touching him against the back of his thigh. 'But not hard enough. C'mon Eames, give me a run for my money.'

Eames rears back, intending to shove Arthur off him and get this fucking _done_ but in the heat-haze he hasn't noticed that Arthur has his hands pinned down. The point-man bites Eames at the junction of ear and jaw and throat, and says, 'If you want to fight me, I'll fight. We can spar. You know I'll take you down. But I think you want this,' and he nudges a knee between Eames's legs, parting them just a little, 'so why don't you let me take you down this way? I promise, you're going to like how deep this rabbit-hole goes.'

'Is that so?' Eames asks, because the other option is moaning incoherent 'nnngh' noises, and that isn't an option at all. He slides his knees further apart, getting up on all fours and taking the weight properly on his arms, his hands still clamped to the duvet by Arthur. Arthur lets him move, his smile curving against the soft skin of Eames's neck, and then when he's finished, Arthur slides into the gap left between Eames's legs.

'Yeah,' he says, very, very quietly. His voice is barely a rumble on the edge of hearing, and it makes Eames shiver. 'Yeah, I think it is.'

And Eames thinks he knows what he's going to get here, so he braces. Arthur shuffles back, and Eames tries hard not to tense against the touch he knows is coming ... when it doesn't. Because Arthur's _fingers_ are clamped around Eames's knees, and the soft, gentle touch at the base of Eames's spine is Arthur's _tongue._

Eames's arms give out at about that point, but even the constriction of his breathing by the pillows and the awkward angle of his arms collapsed under him can't do anything to dispel the _Christ on a bike what even, Arthur, fuck, what are you-_ feeling of this. Not that Eames is babbling that actually out loud, no.

Arthur licks his way down, thorough and methodical and wet, wet like nothing else, nothing _ever_ , and Eames has done some pretty weird things with his arse. Like turn it into someone else's, for a start. But this ...

One of Arthur's hands loosens from its death-grip around the back of Eames's knee, and strokes its way up the adjoining thigh. Arthur's face moves back just enough to allow the hand to come up and start touching Eames in earnest.

'That's good, that's _great_ , honey,' Arthur is murmuring, and Eames supposes he can let the point-man get away with 'honey' given the whole 'darling' incident on the Fischer job, which was _very_ unprofessional. 'Let me in, c'mon, relax just a little, just a little more,' he says, his breath hot where Eames is wet and being stretched.

Eames would like to make the point that he doesn't need to be _soothed_ , he's not exactly new to this kind of a game, and so he spreads himself further, leans harder into the pillows to shove his arse back up towards Arthur, and says, 'Let's be having you then,' in the least interested voice he can muster. All _that_ earns him his another slap, to the place where arse meets thigh, and _fuck_.

Fuck, that's good. Eames feels himself give, just a little, and Arthur gets his first finger in all the way to the knuckle. He's breathing almost as hard as Eames by this point. 'Oh no,' he says, nearly panting. 'You're going to wait til I'm ready, you arrogant sonofabitch,' and he slaps again at the meat of Eames's arse, perilously close to where his fingers are. And again, and again, making Eames shove himself back, desperate for the contact even as it burns. By the time Eames comes back to himself, he's hot and sore and aching, _aching_ for Arthur to touch him, but he's no longer able to control his movement and Arthur still has one of Eames's legs clamped down to the bed by the knee, and his other hand is three fingers deep in Eames's arse, and wait, how has he been doing the slapping?

Eames opens his eyes (when did he shut them?) and peers around to find Arthur, looking red and wild and like he's concentrating harder than he's ever concentrated in his life, sitting over the trapped leg. There's a crumpled-looking tube of lubricant next to him, which explains the three-fingers-already thing, but honestly, that is not what Eames is most concerned with right now.

Arthur still has the not-up-Eames's-arse hand poised to deliver another slap, and when he sees Eames looking at him he makes like he's about to haul back and smack him again, but instead, he just draws his fingers gently over the mass of tender skin he's been abusing. Eames moans.

'Told you you'd like it,' Arthur says, sounding as wrecked as Eames feels, but still in control of it - he can still form whole sentences, for a start. The hand drawing tantalising lines over the mess he's made of Eames's nerve-endings starts to drag around underneath, to Eames's cock.

'I think you're about ready,' Arthur continues. 'So I'm going to pull my fingers out -' and he does, with a wet, sucking noise, 'and I'm going to line myself up -' and he does, and apparently his magical ability to have lubricant lying around handy extends to condoms as well, although thinking about it this is probably less magic and more good planning, which means Arthur has been planning this, 'and I'm gonna push -'

And Eames's world goes just a little bit white at the edges.

'Fuck, Eames,' Arthur says, gravelly, and the closer he gets to _in_ , the closer his skin gets to Eames's, the hotter it all gets, the burn of the slap-marks incandescent, and then finally Arthur's covering him, all the way in, one arm braced next to Eames's on the bed and the other barely moving on Eames's cock.

The thing everyone says about Arthur is that he's the best at what he does. No-one ever really explains what it is that he does, particularly not for them. If Arthur's point-man duties involve doing this with other extractors and forgers and architect, Eames is going to be struck down with the worst case of jealousy since various Ancient Greek gods had their hey-day, because _fuck_.

He is the best at this. Eames's legs are shaking somewhere below him as Arthur draws himself out slowly, then back in, then out again, dragging over Eames's prostate with every motion he makes, it seems like, and his _hand_ on Eames's cock … and all thoughts of turning the tables on this are gone, because Eames doesn't care anymore about anything than this, than pleasing Arthur, than wanting Arthur to approve of him because this, this, he needs this like he needs air, and the way to get it is to let Arthur have his way.

All the same, there is one thing. One thing, and Eames doesn't know if he'll get it now that he wants to ask for it, because he's not supposed to want it, it's _punishment_.

'Arthur,' he says anyway. ' _Arthur_...'

'Yeah?' Arthur pants into his neck. 'Yeah, Eames?'

'I need, I need - _God_ -'

'What do you need?' Arthur asks immediately. 'You're so good, honey, you're so good for me, tell me what you need -'

' _Harder_ ,' Eames chokes, because that's true, that's part of it, and Arthur hauls himself upright off Eames's back, his hand coming off Eames's cock to brace himself on Eames's hips instead, which is fine, Eames doesn't need it anyway. Arthur starts to push in earnest, his thighs and balls slapping and shoving up against Eames, where he's so, so sore and loving it, and that's nearly it, nearly there -

'That's not all,' Eames says, tight as a drum, not sure if he's going to get what he's asking for. 'I need, Christ, Arthur, I need your _hand_ -'

And Arthur hauls himself out and in, once, twice more, and then there's a smacking sound, hard and sharp, and for a moment Eames doesn't even register the blow, until the pain and the pleasure hit him all at once.

It's not like he whites out when he comes, but pressure-lights dance in front of his eyes and he can't hold himself up any more, and some kind of endless lack of time later Arthur moans, and the moan is _broken_.

And Eames thinks, maybe there's something in sticking to the plan after all. But there's more to be said for the consequences of disobedience.


End file.
